viv ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

he turns his head then, and his eyes in the darkness are like hot coals. that’s the push and pull.

the ‘we can’t’,

and the ‘but i did.’

the ‘this is dangerous’

and the ‘i don’t care.’

his hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face towards him. "you make it hard not to, baby,"

that’s all the permission you need. you lean across the center console, the movement awkward but desperate, and kiss him. it’s not soft. it’s all teeth and frustrated tongue, a clash of the week’s worth of tension and stolen glances and texts that went unanswered for hours. his hands fist in the back of your shirt, pulling you closer until you’re half in his lap, the gearshift digging into your side.

he breaks the kiss, breathing hard. "back seat. now,"

it’s a command, not a request. you scramble over the console, knees sinking into the plush leather of the back seats. he follows, a predator in the confined space, his tall frame folding in. the dome light flickers on as he opens the door to climb in, then plunges you back into near-darkness when he shuts it.

he doesn’t kiss you again. he just looks at you, his gaze burning a path down your body. "you know what i want."

you do. this is the script. the unspoken agreement. you’re not his girlfriend. you can’t hold his hand in public, can’t post a picture, can’t claim him. but here, in the dark, you can have this. you can have him.

you reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers fumbling slightly. he watches, his chest rising and falling steadily. when you free him, he’s already hard, thick and heavy in your hand. you lean forward, your hair curtaining your face, and take him into your mouth without preamble.

a sharp, hissed inhale from above. his hand comes to the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there, a weight and a claim. you start slow, learning the shape of him again with your tongue, tracing the vein along the underside. you savor the taste of him, clean and salty and uniquely yeonjun. you bob your head, taking him deeper with each pass, until your nose brushes his base.

"fuck," he breathes out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk. his fingers tighten in your hair. "just like that. so good for me."

the praise, even in this twisted, secret context, goes straight to your core. you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, your own need coiling tight between your thighs. you can feel him getting closer, the tension in his thighs, the way his breathing turns ragged. but just as he starts to tremble, he pulls your head back by your hair, gently but firmly.

"not yet," he says, his voice gravel. "i’m not done with you"

he maneuvers you onto your back on the wide seat. the leather is cool against your skin. he pushes your skirt up, your underwear to the side. he doesn’t remove them. he just looks down at you, exposed and wanting in the shadows. he runs a thumb through your wetness, making you gasp.

"you’re always so ready for me," he murmurs, almost to himself. it sounds like an accusation and a prayer all at once.

he positions himself over you, one hand braced on the seatback near your head. he guides himself to your entrance and pushes in with one smooth, deep thrust. you cry out, your back arching, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his arms. he fills you completely, a perfect, stretching fit that makes your toes curl.

he sets a punishing pace from the start, each thrust driving the breath from your lungs. it’s missionary, but there’s nothing vanilla about it. it’s raw, it’s desperate, he missed you, even you could tell. his face is a mask of concentrated pleasure and something darker, something like anguish. he’s looking right into your eyes, and you can’t look away.

"fuck, this is all mine, mhm?"

"i know," you gasp, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity.

he whispers, his rhythm faltering for a second. "right now. here. you’re mine."

it’s the closest he’ll ever get to saying it. the confession breaks something in him. his thrusts become erratic, deeper, harder. you feel your own climax rushing up to meet his, triggered by his words and the relentless friction. you come with a choked sob, your body clamping around him, milking him.

he groans, a deep, broken sound, and buries himself to the hilt. you feel the hot, sudden rush as he spills inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release. he collapses on top of you for a moment, his weight a warm, crushing comfort, his face buried in your neck.

the silence afterwards is heavier than before. the only sounds are your mingled, slowing breaths and the distant hum of the parking garage ventilation.

he pulls out slowly, the reality of what he’s done— the creampie, ofcourse, the ultimate claim in their risky, forbidden game—settling between you like a third person in the car. he reaches for a discarded napkin from the front seat, cleans himself up, then gently tends to you.

neither of you speak. he helps you sit up, fixes your clothes. you run a hand through your tangled hair.

he gets out, goes back to the driver’s seat. you climb over to the passenger side. he starts the car, the engine purring to life.

"i’ll drop you off a block from your place," he says, his eyes on the concrete wall ahead. his voice is flat, back to the choi yeonjun that's on your screen, distant and untouchable.

the push. after the pull.

you nod, staring out your own window. "okay."

the car moves forward, leaving the dark corner. you can’t be together. but you can’t resist each other either. and in the silence, with his seed still warm inside you, the line feels thinner than ever.

• he’s a morning cuddler. not a talker. he’ll just wrap himself around you like an octopus, bury his face in your neck, and let out a long, content sigh. he’ll stay like that until the very last possible second before he has to get up. if you try to move, he’ll just tighten his hold and mumble a sleepy, "five more minutes, baby,"

• he gives you ridiculous, personalized nicknames that make zero sense to anyone else. "my wifi router" because you "connect everyone," "baby sloth," when you’re waddling around in his oversized hoodies. he says them with a completely straight face.

• he’s weirdly, intensely proud of mundane married people things. he’ll post a blurry picture of the dinner you both cooked on his private story with the caption "chef wife & her assistant 😛." he’ll brag to the members that his wife picked out the best brand of dish soap. he finds a deep satisfaction in having a joint bank account too, lol.

• he has a specific husband voice. it’s lower, softer, and used only for you. it’s the voice he uses to ask "did you eat?" or to read the subtitles on a documentary when you’re resting your eyes. it’s the voice that says "i’m home, baby," from the doorway, just needing to hear you call back "welcome back."

• date nights are planned with the precision. he researches new restaurants, buys tickets months in advance, and has a whole itinerary. but his favorite dates are the unplanned ones: driving to the river with convenience store snacks, or building a ridiculous fort in the living room to watch anime in.

• he’s become your personal hype man. bad day at work? he’ll listen intently, then launch into a dramatic retelling where you’re the brilliant hero and your boss is the foolish villain. you feel insecure in an outfit? he’ll look you dead in the eye and say, “you look like the most beautiful woman in the world,"

• he notices everything. the way you sigh when you’re stressed. the specific way you tap your fingers when you’re thinking. that you prefer the crust cut off your toast. he files these details away and uses them to love you better, often without you even realizing.

• he has a bedtime routine for you. if he’s home first, he’ll run your bath, lay out your pajamas, and have a glass of water waiting on the nightstand. he pretends it’s just him being tidy, but it’s a ritual. his way of ensuring you’re cared for.

• (idol husband YJ) his concept of "home" has completely shifted. it’s no longer a dorm or an apartment. home is wherever you are. he could be in a hotel room on the other side of the world, but if he’s facetiming you while you’re making ramyeon in your kitchen, he’ll get that same soft, settled look in his eyes. he’ll say, "it smells good. wish i was there.* and he means it with his whole being.

• marriage unlocked a deeply possessive streak in him that’s more intense than just boyfriend jealousy. it’s about reveling in the fact that he has you, legally and forever. he’ll whisper "my wife" into your skin like a mantra during sex.

• he loves sex in domestic spaces where the evidence lingers. bending you over the washing machine mid-cycle so you can feel the vibrations. quick, heated moments against the fridge before you have to leave for work. making love on the living room rug and then leaving the blankets there all day, a sweet, secret reminder of the morning.

• his pre-sex rituals are elaborate and focused entirely on you. he’ll spend what feels like ages just kissing you—your lips, your jaw, your collarbones, your shoulders—without any apparent intent to move further. it’s a slow re-mapping of territory he knows belongs to him. he’s savoring the access.

• he has a thing for your wedding bands. during missionary, he’ll often catch your hand, lacing his fingers with yours so the metal bands click together softly with each thrust. he’ll bring your joined hands to his lips and kiss your knuckles, right over the ring.

• post-shower sex is a specific favorite. he loves when you’re both clean, skin still damp and warm, smelling like the same shower gel. he’ll push you gently against the foggy bathroom mirror, your back meeting the cool glass, and make love to you while your combined breaths fog up the surface, writing nothing, but saying everything.

• he’s developed a "provider" kink (service top, almost) that ties directly into his acts of service love language. the idea of taking care of you, of being your source of pleasure, is a massive turn-on. he’ll ask, "did i do good, baby?" after you cum, needing the verbal affirmation that he’s fulfilled his most important duty.

• middle-of-the-night sex & somno is common. he’ll wake up hard and needing you, but instead of a frantic coupling, it’s slow and half-asleep. he’ll roll you onto your side, spoon behind you, and enter you from behind with a soft groan, moving in a lazy, deep rhythm until you both tip over the edge into a dreamless, sated sleep, still joined.

• he loves making you say it. not "i love you*—that’s a given. he wants to hear you claim him back in the throes of passion. "who do you belong to?" he’ll say, his pace punishing. and he won’t stop until you’re sobbing, "you, husband, only you,"

• breeding kink, breeding kink, breeding kink ! it’s no longer a fantasy for him; it’s a real. this makes the sex where he doesn’t pull out incredibly emotional for him. it’s both hot and so meaningful to him. he’ll look into your eyes as he finishes inside you, his expression one of profound love.

the video was shot in crisp, high definition, focusing entirely on him. it was the performance of his new comeback,, and he was wearing that white sleeveless t-shirt that said "PUBLIC ENEMY" in bold black letters, and dark blue washed jeans. the camera loved him. it caught the sharp cut of his jaw as he turned, the intense, focused glint in his eyes during his rap verse, the way his muscles shifted and rolled under the sheer fabric with every powerful, controlled move.

a slow, warm curl of heat started low in your belly. you shifted on the couch, trying to ignore it. this was ridiculous. you’d seen him perform a hundred times. you saw him without the shirt every other week!

. . . but there was something about the curated focus of the fancam, the way it framed him as magnetic, the pure intensity of it hit differently.

you were biting your lip, watching his hands gesture sharply during a dance break, when the couch dipped beside you.

"what’re you watching?" his voice, low and familiar, right in your ear.

you jumped, fumbling the laptop. "nothing—! just...just some stuff,"

he plucked the phone from your slack fingers before you could lock it. his eyebrows rose as he saw his own face, frozen mid-move on the screen. a slow, knowing smirk spread across his lips. he looked from the fancam to your flushed face, his dark eyes missing nothing.

"oh," he drawled, the single syllable dripping with implication. "my fancam."

"it came up on my feed," you mumbled, trying to sound nonchalant and failing spectacularly.

"mmhmm," he leaned back, stretching his long arms across the back of the couch. the movement made his t-shirt pull tight across his chest. he was just in sweats and a soft shirt now, but the sheer size of him—the width of his shoulders blocking the lamplight—was even more overwhelming in your quiet living room. "and? how was my performance?"

"it was… good. you looked good." the words felt inadequate.

"just ‘good’?" he teased, his voice dropping. he reached over and tapped the space bar, restarting the video. the heavy bass filled the room. he watched you watch it, his gaze heavy on the side of your face. you could feel your cheeks burning. when the camera zoomed in on a close-up of his lips during the chorus, you let out a tiny, involuntary sigh.

that’s when he laughed, a soft, dark sound.

"you’re all worked up over a video?"

“i’m not,” you protested weakly, but your body betrayed you, leaning slightly towards his warmth.

he hummed, not believing you for a second. in one smooth motion, he closed the laptop, placed it on the floor, and turned to you. his large hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your hot cheeks. "my poor baby,, got all flustered watching me on a screen." he leaned in, his breath mingling with yours. "when i’m right here."

then he kissed you, and it wasn’t the soft, sweet kiss you often shared. it was deep and claiming, so fucking confident. you moaned into his mouth, you honestly surprised yourseld with that. your hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle there.

he pulled back just enough to speak, his lips brushing yours. "you like seeing me like that?" he didn’t wait for an answer. his mouth moved to your neck, sucking a mark right over your pulse point. one of his big hands slid down your side, over your hip, squeezing possessively. "you should see how you look right now, so pretty for me."

he maneuvered you until you were lying back on the couch cushions, his large body caging you in. the size difference was never more apparent; you were completely enveloped by him. he kissed you again, slower now, teasing your lips apart before his tongue swept in. his hand slid under your shirt, his warm palm skimming up your ribcage.

"sungchan—," you gasped, arching into his touch.

"what do you want, baby?" he murmured against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. "tsk, i'm right here, aren't i?"

he was being mean, a deliberate tease, drawing out every second. his fingers brushed the underside of your breast but didn’t go further. his hips ground against yours slowly, letting you feel the hard line of his erection through both your clothes, but offering no real friction.

frustrated, desperate, you dragged your hands down his back. your nails—done just last week in a pretty, glossy dark blue—of course in honor of II— scratched lightly over the fabric of his shirt. you felt him shudder above you.

a low groan rumbled in his chest. "fuck," the teasing edge vanished, replaced by raw hunger. "okay. okay, you win,"

he made quick work of the rest of your clothes, his own following shortly after. when he finally slid into you, it was with a single, deep, devastating stroke that punched the air from your lungs. he was so big, stretching you so perfectly full. he stilled, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breaths coming in ragged pants.

"this what you wanted?" he whispered, his voice strained with restraint. "when you were watching me on your phone? you wanted this, huh?"

all you could do was nod, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, your nails leaving faint, promising marks.

that broke the last of his control. he began to move, and it was nothing like the slow tease from before. it was deep, rhythmic, and utterly focused, each thrust designed to chase the coil of pleasure tightening inside you. he watched your face the entire time, his eyes dark and unwavering.

when you finally came, it was with a sharp cry, your back bowing off the couch. the sight of you falling apart beneath him was what finally pushed him over. he followed with a guttural moan, his big body collapsing over yours for a moment before he carefully rolled, taking you with him so you were sprawled on top of his chest.

he traced the lines your nails had left on his back with a wince and a smile. "rough, baby," he mumbled into your hair, but his arms tightened around you. his heartbeat was a steady, comforting drum under your ear.

he kept you tucked against his chest for a long while, his big hands stroking lazy patterns up and down your spine. the room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing syncing up. you could feel him softening inside you, a warm, intimate weight.

"you’re gonna be the death of me," he mumbled, his voice a sleepy rumble under your ear. his fingers traced the shell of it, a ghost of a touch. "watching my fancam and getting all…"

you nuzzled into his neck, hiding your smile. "you started it,"

a low chuckle vibrated through him. "no regrets," he shifted then, gently guiding you off him. you made a small noise of protest at the loss, but he just smiled, that sharp, knowing smirk returning. "we’re not done,"

before you could process it, his hands were on your hips, turning you with an effortless strength that made your breath catch. you found yourself on your hands and knees on the couch cushions, facing the back of it. the position was suddenly, intensely vulnerable. you could feel the cool air on your skin, the dampness between your thighs.

you heard him move behind you, the shift of the cushions. then his hands were back on your hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of your lower back. he leaned over you, his broad chest blanketing your back, and his mouth found the side of your neck.

"you looked so good from the front," he whispered, his lips moving against your pulse point. "let me see how you look from here,"

you felt him, the thick, blunt head of him nudging against you, still wet from before. he was already hard again. the realization sent a fresh jolt of heat straight through you. he was big. you’d felt it before, but in this position, the awareness was acute, almost overwhelming.

he didn’t rush. he pushed in just an inch, a slow, deliberate stretch that made you gasp and push back against him instinctively. he let out a soft, approving sound. "there you go— fuck, baby, take it,"

another inch, then another. he filled you so completely, a deep, stretching burn that quickly melted into a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain. you dropped your forehead to the couch cushion, a muffled moan escaping you. your dark blue nails dug into the fabric, searching for purchase.

"fuck," he breathed out, his voice tight. "you feel…— ah, god, you feel perfect like this,"

he started to move then, and it was different. deeper. each slow, dragging pull out was almost as intense as the push back in. his grip on your hips was firm, almost bruising, holding you in place for his thrusts. the sound was obscene in the quiet room—skin slapping against skin, your choked-off whimpers, his ragged breaths.

he leaned back a little, changing the angle, and the next thrust hit something so deep and bright inside you that you saw stars. a sharp cry tore from your throat.

"that’s it,— c'mon baby," he said, his pace picking up, becoming less controlled, more desperate. "right there, hm?" you take me so fucking well,"

one of his hands slid from your hip, around your thigh, his fingers finding the slick, sensitive bundle of nerves there. the dual sensation—the deep, relentless pounding and the precise, circling pressure—was too much.

you came apart with a shattered sob, your body clamping down around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. you shook with it, your vision blurring.

the feeling of you drying him was what finally undid him. with a final, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt, he stilled, a broken groan tearing from his chest as he spilled into you. you felt the hot rush, the way his whole body shuddered against yours.

he collapsed over you for a second, his weight a comforting press, before carefully pulling out and gathering you into his arms. he didn’t even try to go back to the other side of the couch; he just laid down right there, pulling you half on top of him, your back to his chest. his arm was a heavy, secure band across your stomach.

"mean," you slurred into the cushion, utterly spent.

you felt him smile against the back of your shoulder. "how the tables have turned," he kissed the spot. "my girl, took all of me so well,"

you hummed, clearly tired, surrounded by the scent and warmth and sheer size of him. this—the possessive grip, the whispered praise, the overwhelming reality of him—was better than any fancam could ever be.

"am i?" his voice was a low murmur right by your ear. he didn't move. his breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, raising goosebumps down your neck. "you seemed distracted today."

"i'm not distracted. i'm washing dishes." your traitorous body was already reacting to his proximity, a slow, deep pulse starting low in your belly.

it was that time.

your ovulation phase, a fact your body screamed at you with every fiber, and he was here, in soft grey sweatpants and a worn black t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders, looking like every lazy, comfortable dream you’d ever had.

it was criminally unfair.

he knew this was the one outfit that drove you absolutely nuts on a normal day, and when you were ovulating? all kill.

"you’ve washed that same spot for two minutes," he pointed out, his tone infuriatingly knowing. one of his hands left the counter, not to help, but to gently push your hair aside, his fingers trailing down the exposed column of your neck. you shivered, the pot slipping from your grasp with a dull thud back into the water.

"sunghoon," you breathed, a warning that held no heat.

"hm?" he hummed, his lips now brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. his other hand slid from the counter to your hip, his thumb stroking a slow, maddening circle through the fabric of your leggings. "you're all tense. thought you might need a break."

you were wound so tight you might snap. every instinct was screaming to turn in his arms, to arch into that touch, to beg for the friction you desperately craved. but a spark of defiance, fueled by sheer need, flickered to life.

he thought he had you pinned. maybe he did. but you could redirect this.

slowly, you turned off the tap and dried your hands on the towel beside the sink. you didn't turn around. you leaned back, just slightly, until your shoulders were resting against his chest. you felt him go still, surprised by the move.

"you're right," you said, your voice dropping to match his low pitch. "i do need a break." you turned then, finally, within the circle of his arms. you looked up at him, at his dark eyes that were watching you with intense curiosity.

you placed your slightly damp hands on his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. you pushed, gently.

he let himself be guided backwards, one step, then two, until his lower back met the edge of the kitchen table. confusion and desire warred in his expression. "what are you doing?"

"taking my break," you whispered, sinking to your knees on the cool tile floor.

his breath hitched, a sharp, audible sound. his hands, which had been resting lightly on your hips, now gripped you tighter. "baby,—"

you looked up at him from your position on the floor, maintaining eye contact as your hands went to the waistband of his grey sweatpants. the fabric was already strained, tented by his obvious arousal. anybody could tell he was big, it was just obvious.

you hooked your fingers into the elastic and the soft cotton of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to free him.

he was already fully hard, the sight making your mouth water. you leaned forward, nuzzling against the inside of his thigh first, inhaling his scent, drawing out the moment. you heard him suck in a shaky breath above you, his fingers threading into your hair, not forcing, just holding.

when you finally took him into your mouth, it was with a slow, deliberate swallow, taking him deep on the first try. a broken groan tore from his throat, his hips giving an involuntary jerk. "fuck," he gasped.

you set a slow, deep rhythm, one hand wrapping around the base of him to work in tandem with your mouth. you were in charge of this, of the pace, the pressure.

you lost yourself in the taste of him, the weight on your tongue, the soft sounds he was trying and failing to suppress.

but park sunghoon was, well, park sunghoon so his quiet dominance was never truly gone. it was in the way his grip in your hair tightened just so, guiding you to the angle he liked best. it was in the low, ragged praise he murmured down at you. "that's it, pretty… just like that, fuck— you take me so well. see baby? i knew you needed this."

his words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. you moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs tremble. you picked up the pace, your own need a throbbing, secondary beat between your legs.

you were doing this to him, reducing the usually composed park sunghoon to a panting, pleading mess above you.

his control began to fray. his thrusts into your mouth became less measured, more urgent. "angel, 'm gonna come," he warned, his voice strained. "you're gonna swallow every drop for me, right? take it all like a good girl, c'mon,"

it wasn't a question. it was a command, softly spoken but absolute. and you obeyed, hollowing your cheeks and taking him as deep as you could as he came with a guttural cry, his release hitting the back of your throat. you swallowed diligently, milking him through the last shudders until he was soft and oversensitive in your mouth.

you pulled back, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you looked up at him. he was slumped against the table, chest heaving, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as they gazed down at you with a look of pure, satiated awe.

slowly, he reached down, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your swollen lower lip. "come here," he murmured, his voice wrecked.

he helped you to your feet and pulled you into a deep, claiming kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. when he broke it, he rested his forehead against yours. "angel," he breathed,

the kind who have each other’s passcodes and spare toothbrushes and know exactly how the other takes their coffee.

"you’re getting eggshell in the batter," he says without looking up, his voice a low, amused rumble.

"— am not!" you protest, squinting at the bowl.

"there's a speck of eggshell, you dumbass. here." he abandons his whisking and comes around the island, standing so close behind you that you can feel the heat of his body through your thin t-shirt. he reaches around you, his long fingers plucking the offending white fleck from the yellow batter. his forearm brushes against yours. a simple, casual touch.

it shouldn’t make your breath hitch. but it does.

"see?" he murmurs, his voice right by your ear. he holds the tiny shell up before flicking it into the sink. he doesn’t move back. you’re hyper-aware of his presence, the solid line of his chest almost against your back.

"show-off," you mutter, focusing intently on folding the dry ingredients into the wet. your heart is doing a stupid, frantic rhythm against your ribs.

he hums, a non-committal sound, and finally retreats to his side of the island. the space feels colder. you watch him resume whisking, his brows furrowed in concentration. the fading sunlight from his big window catches the dusting of flour on his dark hair, the line of his jaw.

he’s beautiful.

it’s a thought you shove down immediately.

friends.

the cupcakes go into the oven, and the real waiting begins. you clean up in a comfortable silence, your shoulders brushing as you pass the dishcloth back and forth. it’s too easy. that’s the problem. it feels too much like … something else.

"taste this," he says finally, breaking the quiet. he’s holding the rubber spatula he’d been using on the frosting. a perfect, smooth dollop of cream cheese icing sits on the tip. "is it sweet enough?"

you step closer, leaning over the island. you could just take the spatula from him. but you don’t. you meet his eyes—dark, warm, waiting—and then your gaze drops to the frosting. without breaking that fragile, electric eye contact, you close the small distance and wrap your lips around the tip of the spatula.

his breath catches. you hear it. a sharp, quiet intake.

you pull back slowly, your tongue sweeping over your bottom lip to catch the last sweet, tangy residue. you watch his eyes follow the movement, his pupils dilating just a fraction. "it’s perfect," you say, and your voice is softer than you intended.

for a second, he just stares. the air crackles, thick with everything you’ve never said. the late-night texts that felt like secrets. the way his hand always finds the small of your back in a crowd. the jokes about you being his "plus one for life" that don’t feel like jokes anymore.

then, his gaze drops to his own hand. he slowly, deliberately, drags his index finger through the bowl of frosting, coating it thickly. he holds your stare as he brings his finger to his own mouth, sucking the icing off with a soft, deliberate pull. your stomach twists, hot and tight.

"yeah," he says, his voice rough around the edges. "perfect."

BEEP ! BEEP ! BEEP !

the timer on the oven beeps, a jarring, ordinary sound that shatters the moment. you both jump slightly.

"they’re done," you say, stating the obvious because you don’t know what else to say. the tension isn’t gone; it’s just been displaced, simmering under the surface.

"right." he turns away, grabbing the light blue oven mitts. you busy yourself with getting the cooling rack.

the next fifteen minutes are a dance of careful non-touching. you both know a line was just crossed. or maybe you’ve been on the other side of it for a long time, and you only just looked down.

when the cupcakes are cooled, he starts frosting them with a focused intensity. you lean against the counter next to him, watching his hands. they’re musician’s hands, long-fingered and capable. you’ve seen them fly over piano keys and guitar strings. now they’re carefully swirling frosting.

he finishes one and holds it out to you. "first one’s yours."

you take it, your fingers brushing his. a spark. you take a bite, the cake still slightly warm, the frosting cool and rich. "so good."

he’s watching you eat, a small, unreadable smile on his face. he picks up his own cupcake but doesn’t bite it. instead, he looks at you, really looks at you, and the playful mask is gone. what’s left is raw and a little scared.

he puts his cupcake down, his movements slow and deliberate again. he steps closer, wiping his hands on a towel. the space between you is charged, humming with potential.

fuck, is ruining the friendship really worth it?

• he doesn't say anything that evening. he's buzzing, but he hugs the members, thanks the staff, goes through the motions. but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd backstage, and there's a new, profound heat in his gaze.

TENSION SO THICK, YOU COULD CUT THROUGH IT.

• it starts subtle. i mean, he’s always been touchy, but now his hands linger on your hips, your lower back, with a different kind of purpose. when you’re cooking in his dorm, he’ll come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and just rest his chin on your shoulder, his palms spread wide over your stomach. he doesn’t say a word. he just… holds. like he’s imagining it rounded with his child.

• he starts buying things. not baby things—that would be insane—but family things. a ridiculously soft, large blanket "for movie nights." two matching, sturdy coffee mugs. he looks at apartments with an extra room, "for an office or something."

• the dirty talk shifts. it used to be about how good you felt, how pretty you looked. now, it’s laced with something deeper, more primal. "you take me so well, fuck, you feel like home." "i could stay inside you forever." once, in a haze of pleasure, he groaned, "you'd be so beautiful pregnant," and immediately clammed up, as if he’d revealed a state secret.

• watching and taking care of yoojun for a hundred days unlocked a specific, visceral kink: breeding. he never expected himself to be into something like that. he thought of finishing inside you is a sacred, claiming act of creation. the risk, the potential, is the biggest turn-on of his life.

• he becomes obsessed with your cycle. he’d never ask, but he notices the subtle signs. he even downloaded a tracker app. when you’re tired and crampy, he’s unbearably tender, massaging your belly with a warm palm. when he suspects you’re ovulating, or the app tells him so, he’s a different being—possessive, insatiable, his touches loaded with a desperate, hungry intent.

• he stops pulling out. it happens the first time after the music core win. he holds you down through his climax, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, and stays there, panting against your neck. the silence afterwards is thick with what he’s just done. the unspoken question hangs in the air: was that okay? the answer is in the way you cling to him, in the lack of protest.

IS THIS A DREAM?

• it’s a quiet night at his place. you’re curled up watching the parenting diary episode on his laptop. he’s pretending not to watch you watch it.

• on screen, he’s making yoojun laugh, tossing him gently in the air. you let out a soft, "aww, he’s so cute with you."

• that’s the trigger. he quietly takes the laptop, closes it, and sets it aside. his movements are deliberate. he turns to you, cups your face, and kisses you. it’s not hungry at first. it’s devastatingly sweet, full of the emotion he saw on screen.

• "i want that," he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick. "ours. i want to see you holding our baby after a win. i want to come home to you both."

the confession hangs there. it’s huge. it’s terrifying. it’s the hottest thing he’s ever said.

• the sex that follows is slow, deep, and unbearably intentional. every kiss, every touch, every thrust is infused with that yearning. he makes love to you with his eyes open, watching every flicker of emotion on your face.

• he guides your legs up over his shoulders, changing the angle, going deeper. "right here," he breathes, his rhythm becoming focused, potent. "this is where i’d put my baby in you."

• when he gets close, his composure cracks. the sweet, yearning boy is swallowed by the primal man. his thrusts become urgent, erratic. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise.

• "gonna put a baby in you," he chokes out, a ragged, desperate promise. "gonna see your belly swell with me. please. let me. i need to." it’s half plea, half vow.

• he comes with a broken sob, collapsing over you, his body trembling not just from release, but from the sheer magnitude of his want. he doesn’t move, keeping you pinned, filled, as if willing his desire into reality.

• later, wrapped around you in the dark, his hand splayed possessively over your lower stomach, he whispers the most vulnerable thing of all: "would you? someday? with me?" it’s no longer just a kink. it’s a dream, and he’s handing you his heart, hoping you’ll choose to build it with him.